The weather, while still damp and dreary, was a vast improvement over the sub zero temperatures we endured last week during that weird polar vortex thingie, which sounded like some shitty ghetto ice cream shop’s answer to the Blizzard. I’M SORRY, BUT IT DOES. Fuck a polar vortex.
Unless you can get one made with persimmons. AND SONYA APPLES.
Anyway, the 36 degrees we were #blessed with on Sunday was downright balmy in comparison, so after having lunch with my friend Kristy at some boat house place in North Park where I kept missing my mouth and splashing water all over my dumb face, she took me on a short tour of creepy shit around the park.
First up was the Fountain of Youth, which is this thing that had natural waters springing out of it and then something about a golf course. Ugh, fuck it. Just read about it yourself!
We had to park on the side of the road and then Kristy, somehow the better-balanced of the two of us even though she had marveled several times about the alcohol content in the beers she chugged at lunch, had to take my pathetic hand and patiently pull me down a muddy path while I whimpered because I am so afraid, constantly, of falling.
And then we were standing right in front of the opening of the Fountain of Youth and I was whimpering again because I am so afraid, constantly, of being murdered. I’m really glad we didn’t stumble upon any Hepatitis C-infected vagrants or Congressmen smoking crack rocks inside there, because I’m 99% sure I wouldn’t have been able to run back up that muddy hill to the car.
It was creepy as fuck inside that piece. We could hear the tinny echo of water dripping from somewhere within, and Kristy was all, “I wish I brought a flashlight and a six-pack.” It reminded both of us of the Goonies, so I kept trying to fixate on that instead of the serial killer who was using the bowels of the well as a human flesh kite-making workshop.
Hey, speaking of great places to fly a flesh-kite. The next stop on Kristy’s Tour of Abadoned Terror was this creepy log shelter elsewhere in the park.
Abandoned beer. Kristy’s immediate inclination was to check what kind it was. God, I hope she can teach me how to drink that shit. She told me that one of the only beers-which-isn’t-really-beer that I have been able to drink without twisting my face in a “I just drank the piss of Satan fresh from an asparagus buffet” manner tastes like Luden’s cough drops to her. So now that is probably what it will taste like to me, because I’m super easily persuaded. Veritable putty in Manson’s hands.
Kristy is obsessed with old-timey graffiti, which makes me picture her carving weeners and swastikas and “Roosevelt is a limp-dick” on the wall of an orphanage and then hitching a ride on the back of Mr. Bundle’s laundry truck while flicking a switchblade at an outraged Miss Hannigan. Because that’s what went on in the 1930s, right?
Satanic baby stove.
Even with the Evil Dead cabin behind us, it was nice to finally have a day where being outside didn’t compel me to carve a hole in my stomach and climb inside like my body was some bloody disgusting Alaskan igloo. We stood around and talked about cats and horror movies while some asshole woodpecker thing mocked us from a nearby tree.
“I wonder what kind of bird that is, exactly?” Kristy said out loud, surely not expecting me to answer because I never know things regarding nature.
“Oh god, if Henry was here, he’d probably know,” I muttered. One day I’d like to see all of the patches he accumulated with his imaginary Eagle Scout troop.
After getting our fill of nature (and seeing a Christmas tree graveyard) I was driving Kristy back home when I commented on a house that’s for sale on her street.
“Someone died there,” she said gravely. And apparently his dead body was left to rot away for quite some time before being discovered. So that was a really apropos end to a day of being chilled by creepy things in broad daylight.
However, I’m going to go ahead and say that the scariest part of the afternoon was when I almost turned a jogger into a pavement pancake as I was pulling out of the boat house parking lot. Kudos to Kristy for keeping calm and carrying on.
“Joggers are assholes,” she said with a shrug.
I was so excited to tell Henry about the bird we saw. It was the first thing I told him when I came barging through the front door. (My entrances are grand.)
“And then I was like—-”
“‘Oh I bet Henry would know! Hurrrrrr!‘” Henry cut me off, using some terrible Corky-esque tone that I hope wasn’t supposed to sound like me. Because it didn’t. AT ALL.
Shut up, Henry.